


The Slip

by andnowforyaya



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M, Q is a bamf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andnowforyaya/pseuds/andnowforyaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>007 goes to Paris with a picture of his mark. Unexpectedly, he returns to London with his mark, in the flesh, and finds him to be intoxicating-ly irritating. For prompt: <em>Agent 007 was sent to kill me. He made a different call.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for: my lack of knowledge in firearms and weaponry, my lack of knowledge of Secret Service things, and my lack of knowledge of British-isms (I am so, so, so American). Also I apologize for the short chapters.

They show him pictures of the mark. Snap after snap after snap. Some of them are blurry, but 007 commits that face to memory, imagines the mark’s walking gait, its wardrobe and its habits. Glasses, floppy dark hair that could be black in certain lights, could be auburn red-brown in others, and a wiry, twisting slip of a mouth. Attractive, if one preferred the willowy innocence of youth (hint: 007 had no preferences). Hacker, Tanner tells him.

“He’s in Paris,” Tanner tells him.

007 packs one bag of equipment. This won’t take long.

.

He always watches them first. Just long enough to know when to take the shot, when to pull the trigger. He's an excellent marksman, and doesn't usually like to cause a scene (though there was that one time, in Rio). 

This one is slippery. The mark moves through the crowds of Paris like a water snake, and if 007 turns his back for one millisecond, it disappears. He haunts cafes and bookstores and alleyways while he observes and waits; sometimes the mark will freeze, sensing a predator, and turn its gaze sharply in another direction, like a deer in the woods, but it never catches 007. What he thought would take a few short days turns into a week and then a week and a half, and Tanner calls him up, anger clipping his sentences, saying,"Get it done, man," impatient as ever.

But this is a waiting game, and 007 likes how his mark plays. 

.

Finally the time comes. The mark will be just leaving the bank, and it will turn the corner and walk down a little-used side road, like clockwork. 007 will follow it, and he will kill it in an alley. He has a wicked knife curved against his hip for the job.

At 1500 hours it leaves the doors of the bank, and 007 glides out of the shadows and tails his mark, slowly at first so as to not rouse suspicion, but with determination. Though loathe to admit it, he's grown antsy in the interim. The mark turns the corner. Five steps later, so does 007.

But it's empty. Growling, he makes a tight fist and squeezes, the leather of his gloves groaning. He takes off at a jog but stops when he hears the familiar sounds of a scuffle. His lips make a grin, and he follows the noise a few paces forward to an alley - just the alley he had intended to use, in fact - and stops short.

His mark is there (Dark olive parka, cardigan and slim jeans, glasses askance and mop of hair tousled. Breathing: labored. A mark across its cheek blooming red as its lips), and so is another man, who is clutching his face and moaning on the dirty ground, blood pouring through his fingers. Calmly, his mark produces handcuffs from a deep pocket of its parka and binds the man's wrist to a drainage gate next to his head, and then it stands, brushing hands on jeans. "About time you showed up," it says. "I really didn't want to give this to the Chinese, you know." It reaches into another pocket and brings out a tiny flash drive, unassuming and silver. It catches the little light that knifes into their alley. The mark extends the piece of technology, then seems to think better, withdrawing again.

"I want full pardon," it says, "and protection."

“From whom?”

“From everyone else.”

“Putting a lot of stock into tiny bits of data on a piece of plastic, aren’t you?” 007 tells him, raising a brow. “Must be worth a lot.”

“Kill me now,” it retorts, “and you will never know. The encryption on this thing is nightmare, and I’m the only one who can get past it.”

007 is a marksman, and sometimes he has to make the difficult decisions. Pull the trigger, or stay his hand? 

"I'm--" his mark begins to say, but 007 stops the words with a quick motion from his hand.

"Don't. Don't tell me your name."

The hacker's lips press into a firm line, and then he pushes his glasses back into place with one finger. A habit, 007 knows. "I suppose you can call me Q," he says. "Now what should I call you?" That slip of a mouth forms a smile, and 007 makes his decision, realizes he's had it made since he landed in Paris and watched Q charm the clerk at a bookstore into giving him a free book while simultaneously lifting his wallet and phone.

"Agent 007, British Intelligence." He extends a hand, and Q pockets the flash drive quickly before sliding his palm against 007's, and they grip each other firmly, a threat hanging in the air against Q's playful, calculated nonchalance. "You can call me Bond. James Bond."

"Pleasure," Q murmurs, hands warming. "Mr. Bond."

.


	2. Chapter 2

Q has asked for protection, but someone like Q doesn't really need it, Bond is quick to realize. This is how he knows:

There has been a breach at the branch office where Q works. He asked for protection and got it in the form of anonymity and (nearly) round-the-clock surveillance, for which 007 carries shift four. It's twenty minutes to the end of his watch, so of course that is when hell comes knocking. 

Low-level thugs with big guns through the scope of 007's rifle from his perch on the roof the building opposite, their faces in black masks and bodies wrapped in kevlar. The windows aren’t covered, so 007 can see nearly everything that isn’t blocked by a pillar. They aren't there for someone, but something, and this shows in the way they sweep the floor of the office and haul a paper pusher up from where everyone is cowering on the carpet, throw him in the direction of the main office, where the head of the branch is still sitting in his black leather chair, frozen. 007 watches. He has already reported status to Tanner (and Tanner to M), orders are not to interfere unless Q is in direct line of danger. Help is on the way.

He doesn't worry about the man in the nice suit sitting in his leather chair. He must have had training, to be occupying such a position. Too bad for the paper pusher the thugs have chosen, then.

Thug One is built like a brickhouse, and he trains his rifle on the worker, where he is kneeling on the carpet again. At least the office worker isn't cowering. Suit remains stoic, shakes his head, grim. 007 is reasonably certain that Thug One and Two, smaller than his companion but slim and lethal like a knife, shout and threaten, but still nothing, silence through the window where 007 is watching them. Help is on the way.

A single, deadly shot, and the paper pusher collapses to the carpet. 007 trains his scope again, though there is no flurry of motion like he expected. There has been a breach at the branch office where Q works, and help is on the way, but Q is nowhere to be seen.

He shoulders the rifle to take in a fuller view. An exchange of words and some threatening motions from the thugs - he counts four on level, two on ground, and considers heading to floor level to disable their getaway car, but sometimes he doesn't have to make the difficult decisions - and then at the very edge of his field of vision there is Q, standing slowly with his hands slightly raised. Unruly dark hair and glasses and rumpled cardigan. 007 mutters darkly under his breath, "What do you think you're doing, boy," just as Tanner radios in on his ear piece.

"Team Alpha will reach your location in five, Double-oh-seven. Hold your position."

"Can you make it any faster? Our boy's about to do something stupid, I reckon."

"What was that?" Tanner crackles over the comm.

Inside the office, Thug Two escorts Q with a rifle at his back to the main office, kicks the Suit out, and forces the young man to sit in his place. 007 watches. Q's smile is all lazy acquiescence, all placid and unassuming. Thug One steps into the office and gestures with the tip of his firearm at the computer. Q begins typing, easy as pie.

A moment later, 007's personal Blackberry buzzes in his trouser pocket, and he fishes it out quickly, frowning at the email on the screen.

It reads, _like what you see? ;)_

In the office, through the window, Q is typing away, squinting periodically at the screen and adjusting his glasses when they slide too far down his nose. Thug Two tosses him a flash drive, which Q catches with a quick glare, as though angered that he had been interrupted in the process of stealing sensitive, confidential government data, which-

Oh. James curses. The exchange is done, and Q gives the thugs their flash drive, standing and apologetic in his shoulders and stance. It almost looks like they are about to shake hands, but then Thug One rears back his rifle and brings it hard across Q's temple, and he crumples like a slab of meat sliced from its hook in a warehouse. Too late, 007 rights his rifle and trains his scope and fires, and Thug One’s knees buckle before he, too, lies prone on the floor.

“He’s down,” 007 radios, calm and quick, as the inside of the office descends into chaos, “and they’re making for escape. Your team is too slow. I’m pursuing.”

“ _Hold_ your position,” Tanner orders. “Agent, I said--”

007 grunts, ignores the chattering of his handler and trains his rifle again, this time to the getaway vehicle. The thugs are clambering their way through the office, supplies flying as finally, the paper pushers grow a backbone as a mob and rise up like a tidal wave in an attempt to stop them. But it’s much too late and now that they have what they came for, they will not be stopped.

With a quick press of his trigger, the agent pierces through the rubber of their van’s two back tires, smirking. Then, he begins the quick process of packing, dissembling his rifle with practiced movements and keeping one eye on the action. The thugs have cleared the office and are likely moving down the stairs.

His phone buzzes again.

Perplexed, 007 takes it out and squints at the email. It reads, _LET THEM GO. Planned. On your two._

He looks on his two o’clock, snapping the buckles of his rifles’ case closed, and has a very strong urge to give a very rude gesture right then, but pushes the urge down for another day. There in the window is Q, bleeding from the wound at his temple but otherwise perfectly peachy, a hand raised to his shoulder and his fingers curling in a tiny wave when 007 makes eye contact. He smirks. 007 wishes he hadn’t already disassembled his rifle.

In the interruption the thugs have reached their van, and the tires squeal and groan against the asphalt as the driver guns it into submission, and they peel away, relatively unscathed and probably giving each other high-five’s in the backseat. This does not happen often, but 007 is rather stunned.

Below them both, Team Alpha arrives, if only to usher out the survivors and send them to the hospital, shock blankets shining in the afternoon like fish scales. 007 watches Q and Q watches 007, Q’s glasses catching the glare and his teeth blinding and white.

“Double-oh-seven, report,” comes Tanner over his comm, and Q turns away from the window, letting a squadron member lead him out of the office and down into the street. They give him a mug of tea and a blanket in the back of an ambulance, and the medics fuss over his head wound. The professionals swallow him up from sight.

007 says, “Situation stable. Q is fine. Team Alpha was too late; we lost them.”

“We weren’t going to pursue,” Tanner explains. “Tech says nothing valuable was taken with them, but we want to find out who they’re working for. They’ll show up again, and next time we’ll tag them.”

“Risky,” 007 admonishes.

“You know those decisions don’t come from me.”

007 tuts, loud enough for Tanner to hear, who sulks on the other end of the line.

His phone buzzes again, and this time it’s a simple text: _Mine in thirty. I’ll leave the window open._ No number found. He looks down at the mosaic of armored tanks and ambulances and spots Q again, still seated where he had been led, sipping demurely at his tea, phone in his other hand. Then, the young hacker takes a glance around the scene, stands, and slips away, discarding the blanket onto another office worker’s shoulders. He brings the tea with him, though.

“I’m taking over shift five,” 007 announces to Tanner and whomever else is listening. “Don’t send anyone else in.”

“What do you mean you’re taking over shift five?” Tanner argues with him, voice climbing. “You can’t just take over shift five, Seven. Do you have any idea the mountain of paper--”

Bond mutes the earpiece. He can reach Q’s nicely furnished government-funded apartment in under twenty minutes by foot. He checks his watch and grins. Just enough time for a drink.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond goes to Q's flat and there is tension and it may be annoyance or it may just be sexual.

There is tea in a mug and packets of sugar and a shotglass of cream waiting for him on the low table before the sofa after Bond slips into Q’s flat through the open window of the living room (he’d had to climb down from the roof to the twelfth floor and cling to the bricked wall like a starfish before finding a suitable path to the window). Habit has him silent and stealthy, tracking possible exit routes and looking for makeshift weapons. Steam escapes the mug and the room is empty. Bond’s seen it enough times through the very window he entered to know that the place is decorated like a hotel, impersonal furnishings and hard cushions and paintings of seascapes hanging on the walls. Q is not in the living room.

Nor is he in the kitchen. Bond paces the length of the living room a couple of times before deciding that if the tea were poisoned he’s built up quite the tolerance for such hazards and could probably emerge relatively unscathed, and he could use a calming sip after the drink he’d had down the street and around the corner. He sits on the hard grey sofa, placing his case on the cushion beside him, and cups both hands around the mug.

That is when Q emerges from the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him and Bond blinks, because Q is in flannel pajama bottoms and a t-shirt that may be slightly too small for him and that offers a teasing peak of pale skin above his hips, and he’s carrying a sleek laptop balanced in one hand and another mug of tea in the other. He walks over and stands in front of Bond’s case until the agent moves it, and then he sits cross-legged next to him, laptop balanced and typing away with one spidery hand. A full minute passes and not a word leaves Q’s lips.

“Hello,” Bond offers.

“Hello,” Q replies politely, not looking up from the screen. He does place his mug on the end table so that he can type with both hands, though, a little wrinkle forming between his eyebrows as he puckers his lips. 

Another full minute passes and Bond is very good with waiting, has had years and years of experience _waiting_ , watching from rooftops through a scope with a finger on the trigger, thousands of hours of sitting very still and being invisible, but there is just something about being _ignored_ that is a completely different monster. “I’ll just go, shall I?” he huffs, gesturing out the window and beginning to rise.

He freezes when Q places a hand on his arm and says, “Just a minute,” calm as you like, so he sits back down fully and frowns, and Q removes his hand. He counts the seconds that tick away as Q keeps typing and gets up to fifty-four in his head when the hacker hits ‘enter’ on his keyboard with a satisfying _clack_ and closes the lid of the laptop. Q rolls his shoulders, takes his glasses off and holds them delicately in one hand, examining the lenses in the light, and then places both the laptop and his glasses next to his mug of tea on the end table.

“You’re early,” is what Q says, lips just shy of a grin.

Bond does not growl in frustration, but it’s a very near thing. He swallows the reaction and grits, “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“I do,” Q says lightly. “In fact, that’s even why I’ve asked you here.” With the glasses out of the way, Q’s eyes are very green. The cut from where the thug had whipped him with the rifle is a vicious red mark over his cheekbone, a bruise blossoming around it. “You’ve not added anything to your tea,” he observes.

“I figured, why taint the taste of poison?”

Q chuckles, a light, breathy sound, and Bond’s toes curl into the soles of his shoes. “I’m pleased you think I would poison you, but, again, that’s not why I’ve asked you here. If I were going to kill you I’d make it much more exciting than that.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Q says, “I didn’t swipe any national secrets when giving those masked men that drive.”

“I know.” Tanner told him that already - nothing important had been taken.

Q says, “I sent them home with a program so that, as soon as that disk is plugged into a computer, I’ll be able to track it.” He says it as easily as if he were reading a shopping list for groceries. _Eggs, bread, milk, remote-access tracking program I’ve slipped into a flash drive._

“Come again?” Bond says, unsure if he is impressed or slightly confused at the turn of events. Maybe both.

Q gives him a look that reminds Bond of his grammar school teachers when he was being particularly difficult. “When those men use that flash drive, or give it to whomever they’re working for to use it, a program will run on that computer that syncs it to mine, and I will be able to track their location.”

“Oh,” Bond says. “Good. Is that what you were taking care of just now?”

For a moment Q looks quizzical, his brows furrowing, before he remembers and his mouth forms a silent ‘oh.’ He shakes his head. “No, that was just me regaining the high score on Galaga in this group I play with. Some people just don’t know their place.” He clicks his tongue, and Bond resolutely does not react, even though he is feeling a slow simmering rage creeping toward boiling point. Then Q brushes the hair out of his eyes and stretches and his shirt rides up the smooth, flat expanse of his belly, and Bond is uncertain whether that slow simmering feeling is rage or something else.

.

He tells Tanner the next day as they sit across from each other in Tanner’s office, his handler’s eyes bulging out of their sockets at the new information. “He did _what_?” he asks in that way where he’s not really yelling except for on the inside. “Who cleared him to do this? Wait, no, don’t answer that because he’s _not a field agent_ , and no one could clear him for that!”

The red light on Tanner’s phone is blinking but he’s ignoring that call. If it’s a real emergency it will come through on his Blackberry.

“Here’s a thought,” Bond suggests helpfully, properly dressed in a two-button suit and tie. He had come in today for paperwork and nothing else, and even managed to sneak a chocolate chip cookie from the desk of field-agent-turned-secretary-to-the-chief Eve Moneypenny, without incurring her wrath. “Why not make him a field agent?”

Tanner sputters, at a loss for words. “We don’t just go around making anyone a field agent, Double-oh-seven.”

“He’s not just _anyone_ , is he?” Bond presses, because now that he’s had the idea he likes it, thinks it’s brilliant. Q can be trained if necessary. Bond can train him.

“Bond,” Tanner begins with a wary glance, uncertainty in his shoulders. Or perhaps resolution. “You haven’t slept with him, have you?”

“No, I have not,” Bond says, thinking of Q’s pale smooth skin, the cut above his cheekbone, his long wicked fingers, and he makes a decision. “Yet.”

.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a phone call, thoughts about nakedness, and a big boom.

There is no time for Bond to pester Tanner to pester M about making Q a field agent, however, as the very next morning before the sun has even broken the horizon he receives a call (on his personal mobile, again) from an undisclosed number and picks both of his phones up, his personal and the MI6-issued Blackberry, going from sleep to wakefulness in a flash. “Yes,” he says into the microphone, knowing it must be Q on the other end. He rolls over onto his side into a cold patch of his sheets and presses the phone to his ear.

“It’s been done,” Q tells him, voice strangely soft over the phone. “I’m tracing as we speak. Now would be a good time to alert MI6.”

Bond glances at the time in the upper right corner of the Blackberry in his other hand, squinting. “It’s half-four in the morning, Q. Did you sleep at all, or have you just been up waiting this whole time?”

“I slept.” He is obviously lying, but Bond lets it slide. “Now hang up and tell your handler that I’ll have a location in fifteen - ten, really. Also tell them to put HQ on high-alert, since our target’s objective is, in fact, MI6.”

The hairs on the back of Bond’s neck stand at attention. Suddenly he is that much more alert. If MI6 is the objective, then M and the other higher-ups must be escorted to the safehouse. “How do you figure?”

“Those men told me, when they were busy waving around their big guns,” Q says easily, voice smooth and pleased. Bond imagines him smirking at the other end of the line.

“They _told_ you?” he repeats incredulously. “You didn’t think it would be prudent to let MI6 know? Also, _they told you?_ ”

Q sighs. “Well, not in so many words.” He explains: black-booted muscle men who wanted to use an obscure branch office to gather data? They had to know specifics, and they had to know from someone. All they wanted was a payroll schedule, which in itself is not a threatening piece of information. “I said to them, ‘Your boss must _really_ hate what MI6 did to him, back when he was in the field,’ while tampering with the flash drive and sending messages to you, and one of the men said, and I quote, ‘Yeah, he does.’” He had dropped his voice into a growl to imitate the thug.

This boy is full of surprises, Bond thinks. Peeled back from his cardigan layers and glasses he has soft edges and hard intellect, and Bond’s mind wanders to images of a Q completely unraveled, naked and pale. How dangerous; how rare. Aloud, he says, “You’re wasting your potential behind a desk,” and Q sighs again.

“I know. Sad, isn’t it?”

He hangs up. Bond listens to the dialtone for as long as he can bear before he starts the process of calling up Tanner and telling him the news, fully dressed and halfway out of his door before Tanner even connects.

.

They’re flying blind, trace only good for location and not what’s waiting for them when they find it, so of course Tanner sends some agents that he can trust, that can scout the area quietly without a ruckus, without alarming the public. And of course 007 is one of those agents, along with 008, a serious, taciturn agent with a reputation for souvenir-making. The program Q created traced the flash drive to a posh apartment in the South Bank, near the river, where the flow of people and tourists could prove to be a problem.

The double-oh’s are dressed in civvies facing the apartment building, and 007 turns the collar up on his peacoat, stuffs his hands in his pockets, knuckles knocking against the holster at his hip carrying his Walther PPK. He glances both ways before crossing the street, and 008 follows soon after.

The apartment itself is unassuming. Hardly looks like a lair in which to give birth to a terrorist plot. New and modern and very grey. The agents huddle underneath the entrance and 007 rings one of the doorbells at random.

A moment later a lady answers, voice tinny, “Hello? Who’s this?”

“Yeah, hi,” 007 answers smoothly, thickening his accent just a touch, “I have a package to deliver to the apartment next to you but no one’s answering. I’m just going to leave it outside their door, if you can ring me in.”

“Oh,” the lady says, “yes, of course.” A harsh buzz follows. 007 and 008 push in and begin climbing the stairs.

“Yes, don’t want to alarm the neighbors,” comes Q’s voice over 007’s earpiece, and he smiles at the new presence. It is really a shame that he’s not supposed to speak back when he’s in the open, that the earpiece is more of a single-direction affair when eyes can see. “I don’t know why I’m still here,” Q continues conversationally, though he knows 007 cannot respond. “I’ve done my part and everything. Though I’ve been reassured I’ll be getting time-and-a-half. Program could only function up until the point when the network was destroyed. So they’re on the ninth floor, definitely. Now I suppose is the hard part. How many apartments are on each level, anyway?”

Behind 007, 008 huffs, an annoyed sound. It only serves to bring back a curl into 007’s lips, pleasantly bemused by the hacker.

There are only three apartments on each floor, and by the time they reach the ninth level unhindered and silent, Tanner has taken over Q’s ramblings. Or rather, Tanner must have taken the microphone away from Q so that the earpiece remains respectably quiet, and the agents can focus on the footprints they see tracking the carpet in the hallway, can listen at the doors for activity, can screen the area for possible surveillance. There isn’t any, it seems, except for the security camera nestled high in one corner on the ninth floor.

Behind the door of apartment 9A, a child laughs loudly, then the sounds of a popular children’s television program seeping through the walls. 9B is silent, and when 008 nudges the door, it creaks open completely. The Walther PPK’s come out, and 007 covers the other agent as he enters quickly, ducking low behind the kitchen counter and then sweeping the open area of the living room quickly with his eyes. It’s completely empty.

“Clear,” 008 declares, standing. He presses a button on his own earpiece that allows him to communicate, and says, “We’ve found a likely location. We’re investigating.”

“Proceed,” Tanner allows.

007 enters, cautiously. He leaves the door open behind him, just in case, but the apartment seems truly empty. There is carpet covering the entire living room, and indentations where furniture used to be, and pale blocks of wallpaper where paintings used to hang. The curtains on the windows in the living room are wide open, but the windows are closed. In the kitchen, one cup has been left on the counter, half-full of black coffee, but everything else has been stripped. Not even the coffee-machine remains.

“Well,” comes Q’s voice again. “What have you found? I knew you should have brought a camera in there with you. It’s dreadful boring watching a stationary red dot on a screen, however blinking and bright it may be.” A brief, metallic scuffle, and Tanner comes back on the line. “Report,” Tanner breathes, winded. 007 chuckles and 008 sends him a dark, reproachful look.

“Signs that the apartment has been used in the past,” he describes to his handler, “but it’s empty now. The living room and kitchen are clear. 008 and I will look at the other rooms.”

Q’s voice sounds very far away when he says, “Be careful of trip-wire!”

007 rolls his eyes. 008 shrugs, and they both begin walking towards the first closed door they see. But it’s just the bathroom, empty as the kitchen. The linen closet in the hallway looks as though it had never been used. The first bedroom they come across has a bare mattress lying naked on the floor, and nothing else.

Then, 008 hears it first. A steady beeping, like a heart-monitor, coming from the last bedroom in the hall. 007 repositions his Walther and the agents share a meaningful glance. “Possible activity in one room,” 008 mumbles into his comm.

They approach the closed door, the beeping only slightly increasing in volume, and with a quick signal 007 kicks hard at the wood, and the door swings open, revealing a single, fat computer on a small table, green numbers and letters crawling across the screen, directly in sight in the center of the room. 

007 feels his lips slipping into a frown, as 008 pushes past him with his firearm at the ready - really great form, actually, except for that feeling in 007’s gut that something is not quite right, and 008 steps over the threshold and the beeping stops, and the feeling in 007’s gut fights him, but it’s over, dice have been rolled and they’ve come up lacking.

He thinks, _trip-wires_ , and sees Q’s naked face, and then the room explodes.

.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bond is the one who needs saving.

He wakes to cotton, to a haziness around his field of vision and a heavy, dry tongue. The world is soft, and muted, the single bare lightbulb rocking back and forth over his head hypnotizes. Sound filters to his ears as though through water, and a blurry figure to his left gurgles, “He’s awake. Give him another dose.”

Something sharp pinches his neck, and his arms are dead weight and unresponsive when he tries to lift them. “Do they usually need this much?” gurgles another figure, out of sight. Bond blinks and the images shift, like contact lenses readjusting to the shape of your eye.

He thinks the other shrugs, but there is nothing to be done as ice crawls through his veins, bringing with it a black, dreamless sleep.

.

Then, there is _actually_ water.

He swallows a mouthful of it, chokes on it, comes to sputtering and short of breath, water dripping from his short hairs and he tries to sit up and finds his arms crossed in front of his chest, tied with soft leather to their holds at the edges of the cot. He struggles but knows it is futile, his strength nearly gone due to the cocktail of drugs pumping through his system. There is an IV drip next to the cot, but it is unattached to his arm. He wonders how long it will remain unattached.

The man who had thrown the water laughs and takes a step back with his pail, revealing another man, dapperly dressed and nearly-white hair neatly combed. This new onlooker smiles, but something sinister lies beneath it, something wicked and cruel.

“The infamous James Bond,” he says delicately, holding his hands behind him. Bond is in hospital scrubs, and struggles again just for the indignity of it all. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All bad, I hope,” Bond responds lightly, not bothering to deny the name. He’s never felt the need to, as those who knew or know his name are either MI6 or family or about to be dead or imprisoned. “And you are?”

The other man tsks and shakes his head, like an owner chiding a puppy that had accidentally gone on the carpet. “No, no, no. You don’t get to ask questions yet.”

Bond says, “And when do I get to ask questions?” as the other drags a metal chair over to the side of his cot, legs grating against the concrete floor. He drapes himself into the chair and smiles again. Unhinged, Bond thinks, mentally congratulating himself for the word.

"When story time is over,” he says, and he leans forward to put his elbows onto the cot, so close to Bond that if he were able to reach he could take hold of his neck and squeeze, but the restraints are solid and the drugs strong. Even now, Bond feels his eyelids growing heavy.

.

He tells him his story, and Bond drifts, and in his dreams there are two rats in a barrel, and M dressed in black, tying his wrists together and telling him to climb in. “Last rat standing,” she tells him with dark eyes, closing it when Bond is fully inside. Water begins to fill the drum. “If I give him to you,” he hears her say, just outside his wooden confinement, “What do I get in return?”

The man’s name is Silva, and he says, hissing and soft, “A snake.”

.

There is no true wakefulness after that, just hazy in-between states of being, colors blurring together and Silva’s gleaming white teeth when he smiles. M will forget you, too, he murmurs to Bond. M will give you up. M will give up on you.

“This is for Mum,” Silva tells him on a day when he is almost completely lucid, spoon-fed soup and untied so he can move his restless muscles. “See what she has made me.”

.

James loses track of the days. Silva comes and goes, flitting like a hallucination, and the bare lightbulb overhead blinks and fizzles and pops. Shadows lurk in the corners of his vision, and he doesn’t remember what it’s like to be awake.

This is his existence. M is an abstraction, MI6 a foreign land. 008 died in the blast, so maybe 007 is dead already. His mind loops, and loops, and loops.

Then, there is a needle in his chest, and fire coursing through him, and suddenly his mind is clear, the colors have returned, and everything is sharp and biting and real, and James curls his fingers into a tight fist and _swings_ , the leather giving and ripping. The shadow in his vision gains substance, and it is Q, wide-eyed and silent, and James cracks him one across his nose, Q’s glasses snapping and falling from his face.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” says Q, immediately bringing his hands up to his nose and crouching, out of James’ reach and into safety. “Nothing like a shot of adrenaline straight to your chest.” There is no rush of blood, and for that James is grateful.

“Your glasses!” James blurts in lieu of an apology, shame coiling low in his belly.

“It’s okay; I didn’t really need them,” he says, hushed, and the confession makes James go a bit cross-eyed in disbelief, but Q pushes aside his concerns (and complete inability to show said concerns) and explains hurriedly, “We need to move. The guards posted outside your door are out, and Moneypenny is waiting in the getaway, but we really need to _move_.”

On the last word, Q hauls him up out of the cot, James’ legs like jelly for a few precious moments before he finds stable ground again, though he does lean on his unexpected rescuer a bit too heavily for his own tastes. Q presses something familiar into his palm. His Walther PPK. 

“Present,” Q explains with a smirk, “To your liking?”

James checks the magazine, and the gun sings in his hand. “Very much,” he says, and it feels like coming home.

.


	6. Interlude.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: _It’s been a long time since anyone has called you by your real name._

01010001\. Q in binary code. Another step removed from you. It’s been a long time since anyone has called you by your real name.

You see the world like this: scrolling numbers and letters, punctuation that seems out of place, always looking for the gap, the crack through which you can step and rewire and create. You whisper into electronic subspace and it whispers back. People fill the spaces, and people are flawed. You know this, lived this, earned a pretty penny from this.

There has always been someone watching you, but Bond was different. Bond was a ghost in the wires. There are a lot of people unsure about killing you, and perhaps only a handful sure about not killing you. Bond has joined that handful. Loathe though you may be to think it, you owe him.

The sizzle crackle rumble of the explosion echoes in your ears, and the static that took over in the immediate after haunts you; you wake up hearing it.

It takes weeks of frantic typing, searching, and by the end of it you haven’t slept for days and your fingers shake when the rest of your body is still, a week of traces and backdoors and dismantling firewalls until you find it, a misplaced letter in a coil of code, something not quite there and you reach for it, rip it apart, and at the other end will be Bond, you know it.

M says, “We’ll send a double-oh. Quick retrieval. Good work, Q.”

You say, “I’m going, too,” and M looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time, suspicion in her eyes and a grim line where her mouth is.

“You don’t even really work here,” she points out, but you square your shoulders and hold her stare, and she reads the determination in your eyes, and also the challenge. “Take Eve with you,” she says. “Lord know you’ve gotten us this far.”

.

Of course, it is not so simple as that. They plan for you, they give you tests that you already know all the answers to, they hand you a gun that you dismantle and put together in record time, but then you fire it and the proctor mumbles, “Close enough.”

They give you a new laptop but you don’t use it - yours is better equipped, faster - and a Blackberry that can self-destruct if necessary. They give you instructions. “You look the part,” Tanner says about you. “Go to Bond’s location with the promise of information. You’re a hacker; you can fake it, and I’ve seen you under pressure. Eve will be there to assist, and we’ll have eyes on you in case things go bottoms-up.” He gives you a pistol and a suppressor for it, and in your mind you dismantle it, put it together, you learn it. “You keep this one.” He gives you another firearm, a Walther PPK. “And give this one to Double-Oh-Seven when you find him.”

You nod.

Tanner says, “What will you do if you get in a bind?” eyeing you up and down, taking in your skinny arms and lanky legs.

“I can defend myself.”

“But can you _fight_?”

You offer him a twist of your lips and say, “Isn’t that what the gun is for?” and he pats you on the shoulder, oddly paternal.

.

The man’s name is Silva. He could have been attractive, once, if not for the dead gleam in his eyes. They keep you in cuffs before him, but you make your case, you smile a pretty smile, you look at him from below long lashes. “I’ve heard about you, so I came up with a way to get your attention, and look at what I’ve brought you. British Intelligence’s best double-oh, and all of the agency’s inner workings in my head.”

He says, “So that was all your doing? You set up the fall, my clever boy?”

You incline your head, and they take off the cuffs. Now, to find Bond.

.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which Bond and Q escape. Or try to, at least.

The first thing Bond does when they stumble, four-limbed and wary, out of his cell - because Bond realizes quickly that’s just where he is, a cell of concrete and metal doors and the smell of antiseptic - is he pulls the trousers off the unconscious guard in a heap by the wall and pulls them onto his own legs. “Can’t have my bare arse out for all the world to see, can I?” he reasons with Q. He tucks his Walther into the back of his newly acquired trousers, and Q steps back, appraising. Without his glasses he looks even younger, and he stares at Bond a bit too long for it to be considered professional. His eyes are two bright flares in the crude light of the corridor.

Bond is weak in the knees, shaky and fatigued after who-know-how-long of being confined to a bed, but he manages to stand on his own with the shot of adrenaline coursing through him, and Q says, “Take the shirt, too, and you might be able to pass for a guard.”

Bond’s mouth tilts crookedly. “You mean the plan _wasn’t_ for us to go out, guns blazing, set the whole place burning?”

“Is that your usual fashion,” Q mutters a bit condescendingly, like an older sibling who has no time for his younger’s tricks. He glances down both ends of the corridor to check the area is clear while Bond slips into the shirt and buttons it up. It’s a bit big around the shoulders; he’s lost weight in the days of confinement. 

When he’s all done up they nod to each other and Q takes a decisive stride to the left, and then they are walking, brisk and silent, past other abandoned cells and toward the square of light that could be an atrium. The air is suddenly open and Bond can see now the old grey walls of a prison, the rows and rows of cells looking into the common center, and wires, a seemingly endless supply of them, trickling coiling like a massive black and green and red spiderweb through some of the cells to an equally massive computer on the ground floor.

They have been walking in one corridor of many, and now comes the end of it, where the corridor becomes a walkway that goes around the perimeter of the open space in the middle, a tall railing separating them from a sudden drop. Q stops suddenly before they can emerge onto the walkway, and Bond follows behind him, slightly winded even from that short walk. “Hang on,” he asks of the younger man. “Why are _you_ here for me and not an agent?”

Q brings one sharp shoulder up and down in a shrug, glancing back at Bond, eyes keen and so very green. “Who says I’m not an agent?”

But Bond is in no mood for games. He’s out of sorts and at a disadvantage, and MI6 sends some kid in to retrieve him? The look he gives Q is distinctly unamused. After a moment Q folds, looking away again and into the atrium. “You spared me once,” he admits unexpectedly. “I owe you. I asked to be here.”

Surprise has always ill-suited him, and years of training and experience have taught him how to tamp down the reaction to something nigh unreadable, but it freezes Bond all the same. “Are you always this good with your favors?”

Q says, “I don’t like to be in anyone’s debt,” with such a dark undercurrent that Bond bites his tongue on the questions he wants to ask following. Later, he reminds himself. When they are not knee-deep in enemy territory with nothing but two pistols, an underfed agent, and a hacker whose only experience in field work is in nocturnal rounds of war-simulation MMORPG’s. Bond reviews that thought and dearly hopes Q has another surprise up his sleeve.

“How did you get in?” he asks, curiosity taking over. He’s noticed by now the white-noise hum of the computer and chatter of perhaps a dozen people on the ground floor. They can’t see much, though, given how they’ve hung back from the railing. It makes Bond itchy with renewed energy.

“I walked right up to the main entrance and announced that I had done it all - given those men at the office the program to track Silva, sent you after him, allowed you to be captured, and that I wanted to work with him.”

“And he believed you.”

“Well, save for that last bit, it’s all true, isn’t it?”

Bond concedes that it is. “And then? How did you get away to find me?”

Q mutters something under his breath, and with his face turned away again it’s impossible for Bond to hear.

“What?”

“I said, he thinks I’m using the gentlemen’s at the moment,” Q repeats, louder so that Bond can hear. Then he ushers Bond forward to creep along the wall, away from the railing, and they make it not even twenty paces before Q trips over a fat bundle of wires, cursing silently. They watch the bundle swing from the unexpected transfer of energy, watch the movement travel away and down, past the railing and into the air above the workers, and then finally the wires creak at the point where they are plugged in to the massive structure of hardware.

One person looks up. And then the rest of them.

“Oh.” The word escapes Q’s lips as he turns back to Bond in dread. “Now I should mention that I’ve never really done this before.”

They run.

Rather quickly Q lets Bond’s instincts take over, and they make for the roof.

“I haven’t got contact with HQ,” Q tells them as they are running, up the exit stairs with gunshots and clunky boots ringing out below them. “Seven, how are they going to know we need pick up?”

“Firstly, you can call me James, by now. Secondly.” He has to pause for a moment to catch his breath. The adrenaline will not last forever, he knows. They must make it to the roof before it’s pumped out of his system. “Secondly, they’ll see us. Have a little faith.”

But then he thinks of, hazy and half-remembered, Silva’s story and bitter words, two rats in a barrel. They sent Q for him, didn’t they? Untrained and untested. Shiny and new. A pale, colt-legged techno-wizard with the ability to slip through government cracks, but breathtaking and intelligent and quick as he may be, Q was not made for missions such as this. Either M had a lot of faith in the kid or she didn’t much care how his retrieval mission went. He grits his teeth at the thought, pushes the fire out of his lungs, and wills his legs to keep climbing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Silva, Bond, and Q play a game of cat and mouse.

Of course the exit door to the roof is blocked. Recently, James reasons, running a rough finger along the seam where the door meets the wall, judging by the relatively fresh smell of a binding agent. It is clear and viscous and not even a well-placed bullet would allow the door to budge. He holds his head in his hands, breathing deep as though oxygen could replace the quickly diminishing adrenaline powering through him, and he listens for the footfalls and shouts below them, steadily closing in.

His foot connects with the door in a sudden fit of frustration, and Q nearly drops his gun at the resounding noise. “The roof,” he drawls. “Great plan.” His voice is steady but his face glistens under a sheen of sweat, and his eyes shiver in anticipation. James places a solid hand on Q’s shoulder to anchor him, expecting a sigh but receiving a tensing of his body in return, Q staring unblinking as he draws his bottom lip between his teeth.

The agents starts, “And what was your plan going to be?” except Q interrupts, slowly but certainly, “We need to go back down two levels. There was an outdoor court that I saw on the way in; split level - if we can get out there MI6 will definitely see us.”

“So will Silva,” James protests for the sake of protesting.

“Eve will already be making preparations. It’s past our agreed-upon time. We’d just have to hold out until they get there.” He blinks, finally, eyes refocusing on James. He does not look thrilled at the thought.

“It’s not really a plan,” James tells him.

“But what else can we do?”

Other than run, get captured, and rot away in another anonymous cell in this crumbling prison. Or die. James shrugs. He’s been in worse situations. “Keep up,” he quips to Q, playing at lighthearted, and turns away from the door. They scramble down the two flights necessary and their pursuers - James counts five of them - dog their steps.

.

Everywhere, Silva’s voice rings out, “Now do we play cat and mouse? Oh, Mr. Bond. You did not have to take my story so far.”

James pumps his legs. Shots ring out behind him. A bullet ricochets off the wall and spatters fine dust over his shoulder. They run past corridors and grey concrete and fly over wires. Q’s long, coltish legs propel him forward, and James’ lungs burn.

“What story is he talking about?” Q asks him, wasting precious energy to look back at the agent, who fell behind again. James growls and does not respond, instead summoning upon his reserves to tackle Q to the side and into a corridor. Their pursuers are not ready for the sudden change, and follow after a moment of confusion, and James retaliates.

The first turns the corner straight into a fist at his neck, and he goes down, choking. Q quickly catches on and readies his gun. He fires and hits the second in the arm, and the force of it sends the guy reeling back and back and back and finally over the railing, where a dull thud and sickening crack follow.

The rest are more prepared. They come low to the ground, on the attack, and one of them manages to catch James from below in the solar plexus, a vicious uppercut, while another quickly knocks Q’s gun out of his hands. In the cramped space it’s going to be a blurred, frenzied sort of fight, cell doors on either side and hard concrete in between. The last of them simply levels a gun at James, but despite Q’s lack of training he is still _fast_ , and he is always prepared.

He whips out the weapon in his back pocket and fires, and the last assailant goes down convulsing.

In the surprise that follows, James cracks his personal attacker across the temple with the butt of his gun twice, and he crumples. The only one still standing rounds on Q, who drops the weapon in his hands, now useless, and brings up his fists instead, knowing that he must make a sorry sight. They move simultaneously, the man lunging and Q stepping back on instinct, when James throws himself between them and uses the other’s momentum to toss him onto his back, grunting. He stomps once on the fallen’s nose, effectively knocking him out.

James and Q’s breaths are heavy in what follows. The agent gives Q an appreciative glance. “A taser?” He smirks, amused.

Q says, “You couldn’t have told me that you were planning on letting them ambush us?”

James shrugs. “I figured you would be quick enough to catch on. And look at that, you were.”

“Typical,” Q grouses, teeth catching the light.

“Oh dear,” Silva interrupts, suddenly appearing behind Bond. Q’s eyes widen. “Am I interrupting something?” And then he fires a bullet into Q’s shoulder.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are my chapters getting smaller? I apologize.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which I get the hurt out of the way so I can work on the comfort in the next chapter.

Q’s scream is delayed, pained, wild. The bullet knocks him back and down, and already there is red painted and blooming across his shirt and cardigan, staining it a dark, ruddy brown. His hands tremble when he lifts them to press against the wound, teeth bared and groaning.

James knows exactly what it feels like, dread and energy pumping through your veins cold as ice, every movement after shaky and imperfect. He scrambles to his knees next to Q, pushing away the hacker’s useless hands and pressing his own to the pulsing tear. Q’s fingers scrabble at him, trying to dig under where James’ palm is hot and solid against his collarbone, and James grits, “No, don’t try to take it out yet.” Q hears the low timbre of his voice and stills, breathing ragged, face losing color.

Silva laughs, a high-pitched sound, and says, “Not _such_ a clever boy, then,” and lowers his gun, stalking slowly towards them.

James sees blood, and then he sees red.

.

Later, when Q is getting seen to in the hospital, Tanner will say, “It was all part of the plan, Seven. Q knew the risks.” Eve will say, “We had eyes on you the whole time. We knew we had to move.” M will say, “Good work, Agent,” clipped and toneless, and he will think of rats in a barrel.

James will read at Q’s bedside until he wakes.

.

Silva does not enjoy fighting at close range, but he will do it, and he is skilled at angling his knuckles just so to wreak the most damage. That little smile never leaves his lips. James launches himself at the white-haired bastard, hands already bloody from Q’s bullet wound, and leaves knuckle prints on the jacket of his fine, pale suit. He beats the gun out of Silva’s hands and it falls to the side with a clatter where the floor meets the wall.

They are both trained. Absent are the wild untethered swinging fists. Instead, they are quick and efficient and calculated. A jab followed by an uppercut. A block countered by a right hook. When Silva changes the stance of his feet James mirrors it, and then he stomps on the instep of Silva’s patent leather-covered foot.

James isn’t sure how long they fight, how much damage they pound into each other while Q’s blood bubbles through his fingers. He sees red, and red, and red.

“Mum chews you up and spits you out,” Silva spits at him. “What could we make, James? Whole countries would bow to us. Bring along your boy, if you wish.” Once, the man whispers, “We could be kings,” fevered, crazed. The punches and kicks don’t work; Silva won’t go down. An agent that couldn’t die.

James grunts, lashes out with another punch, connecting with Silva’s jaw. Silva’s teeth pink with blood and shiny, his knuckles burning, his breath like fire through his throat. These are the things James sees and feels, Silva’s collar tightly gripped in his fingers, and still that smile. Then, a red dot appears on James’ shoulder, slowly trailing and skipping over to Silva’s, finally resting on his temple. James is unsure who sees it first, but they both freeze at the unexpected interruption. Another red light follows. Then another, and another. Silva is lit up. His laughter is breathy and broken and bruised. “Mummy’s found me,” he says, and raises his hands in a gesture of surrender.

James does not want to let go, but if he strains he can hear the helicopter outside of the concrete walls, the near-silent footfalls of a team sent by M, and behind him Q is cold and pale.

.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people keep coming into Q's room at the hospital.

_“We will need a distraction,” M said._

_“Oh,” Q breathed. “Well, I am quite good at those.”_

.

The rolling base for his IV drip trails behind him like a reluctant pet, but at least it makes it easy for the nurses and doctors to hear him coming. Somehow, the rattle roll of its wheels partnered with James’ light but deliberate steps are easily recognized.

No one stops him from visiting Q. He enters Q’s room and drags himself to the armchair set up by the bed, folding his arms into his lap when he’s seated like he’s done so many times before. The young man sleeps, eyes moving behind his eyelids every so often like he’s about to wake. “Just resting,” the doctors all say to him, before squinting their eyes and continuing, “As you should be.”

James scoffs at that. The IV feeds him smaller and smaller doses of the drug cocktail Silva pumped into his system while he was captive, and every so often his fingers shake or a cold sweat breaks out over his whole body to adjust, to readjust, but it is hardly worth worrying over. No, he’s had worse, he always thinks. The hospital is for recalibration. His body is a machine owned by the government; he has faith that they will at least try to fix him properly.

Q’s room is situated in the middle of the floor, away from corners where windows are on all sides, larger than necessary and private. The one window that looks out into the courtyard is curtained, weak light filtering through even when the sun is at its brightest. Someone has placed a vase of flowers on the table next to the bed. They are yellow and pale green and remind James of spring.

Q is connected to an IV, too. This one replenishes his fluids. “He lost a lot of blood,” the doctors told him and Eve and Tanner with a downturn in their lips and furrows in their foreheads.

“But he’ll be fine,” Eve finished for them, challenging.

Now, Tanner enters with a perfunctory two knocks on the door, and James glances up at him, offering a small nod of acknowledgment. He places a new pair of glasses, neatly folded, on top of a blue handkerchief by the flowers and confesses, “The lenses are just for show. No one could find a prescription for him anywhere.” James shrugs at him, the cotton of his sweater scratching at his shoulders. They’ve let him change out of hospital scrubs by now. He remembers waking up from a hazy fevered non-existence to Q’s sharp eyes and the punch that followed that broke those frames. For some reason Q wants the world to think he needs his vision corrected, so James sees no reason to break this illusion to his handler now.

“He’ll appreciate it,” he acknowledges to Tanner, taking the newspaper from him as a matter of course.

Tanner’s face pinches in on itself, something unpleasant about to come out of his mouth - James senses it. He questions, “You know it’s not your fault,” and James tenses all over so quickly and finitely that Tanner does not notice at all. He answers with silence.

The handler leaves after that, leaving James to the crossword puzzles in the back of the newspaper and to Q’s quiet, steady breathing.

.

The first words that leave Q’s lips when he regains consciousness are: “What are _you_ doing here?” Weak and raspy and directed at James. His dark hair in clumps around his head, skin around his eyes thin and papery and vulnerable, like butterfly wings. He glares, but there is no real heart behind the action.

James folds up the newspaper he’s reading and places it to the side, hiding the tremor in his fingers and willing his mouth to hold a neutral line. Q’s voice makes James heart jump. He tells him in a gravelly voice, “Oh, good, you’re not dead.”

Q rolls his eyes. “It’s good to see you escaped relatively unscathed.” He examines the IV drip still connected to the agent to the side. “How long was I out?”

“Three months,” James lies, his lips betraying him finally as they begin to curl at the ends.

Q says, “Ha, very funny, you are,” in a flat, unamused tone. “Now, really.”

“Only three days,” James answers, this time truthfully. “How are you feeling?”

The bedridden crinkles his nose up in thought, and James can imagine him cataloguing every feeling within his body, every cut and bruise, but in the end Q only says, “Thirsty.”

James should call for the nurse. He should call for the hospital because Q has awoken on his own; he’ll need further tests and bloodwork and probably some physical therapy. He should tell Q not to put himself in the line of danger ever again, tell him to stay behind a screen and complex code where is it relatively safe as long as you stay away from windows. He should do a lot of things. The problem is, sometimes James knows what he _should_ do, and then he crumples those instructions up into a ball and tosses them into the bin.

Q’s eyes focus on his, green against blue, and James not only tosses _should_ in the bin but then he sets fire to the whole thing as well. He stands very slowly, one hand on the stand of his IV drip, and the other around the mug of tea that’s been steeping since he entered Q’s room hours ago, and approaches Q’s bedside. Eyes never leaving the hacker’s, he releases the stand and takes one of Q’s hands where it rests atop the blankets, and wraps cold fingers with his own around the mug, now lukewarm.

Q’s fingers are soft, and thin. He could break those fingers with one hand. Instead he helps to guide the mug to Q’s lips and Q sips, a small sound, and when he takes the mug back, placing it on the table by the bed, he leans forward, slow enough for Q to protest - but he doesn’t - and places a very chaste kiss on Q’s forehead. He steels himself before returning his gaze to the younger man.

Green eyes very wide, color on his cheeks where there had not been before. James sits just as slowly, and waits.

Finally, Q clears his throat and mumbles in a small voice, “Have you been here this whole time?”

“Yes,” James admits without hesitation.

The change occurs first in Q’s eyes, lifting at the corners and brightening, then his lips curving into a sliver of a smile. “I see,” he says, pleased.

James dearly hopes that it is not something they need to talk about, not something that needs to be examined and taken apart before it can be put together again. Q does not ask him any questions about it at that moment, but he does ask him how they managed to escape, so James tells him and later when Eve comes by the check on the flowers she will see Q’s fingers crooked loosely into James’, both of them asleep and turned towards each other, their arms stretched to close the distance. She will smile and throw out the old yellow and green flowers and replace them with the ones she bought this morning. They are red and white with large, silky petals.

.


	11. Chapter 11

M’s office is old and musty, smells of the cedar and paper and flowery perfume that James has come to associate with older women. He knows the image he strikes in her doorframe, Tom Ford suit pressed and perfectly fitted, is familiar, and this is why she does not look up from her desk. Her pen makes scratching noises upon thick white paper as she writes, the long-form making James think that the letter must be personal, or else very important.

The silence goes on for as long as M can bear; she looks up finally at him, snapping her pen to the table with a terse, “What is it?”

If it had been any other agent, that tone would have sent him or her running with their tail between their legs, but James is assured of his position as M’s favorite, and only cocks his eyebrow at the impatience.

“If this is about Q, I’ll have you know that he was very much aware of his function as a distraction so that we could secure Silva’s position. If he happened to rescue you in the process, it was all very good.” She sits back and places her palms on the arms of her chair, practically reverberating with the air of a woman who has had to fight tooth and nail to the top of a traditionally man’s game. James imagines her baring his teeth at him, and it’s not so far off a thought.

“This is not about Q,” James assures her, taking that first step inside her office. Q is safely tucked into a nest of blankets in a new flat, a tracking device which Q could likely easily disable that MI6 hooked around his ankle beeping away. James inspected every centimeter of the new flat before leaving the younger on his own, and the security systems in place passed, though as an extra precaution he programmed his number to be on speed-dial and voice-activated into Q’s phone. He also slipped Q a gun before he left; now that Silva is out of the picture the hacker-turned-field-agent is again under MI6 protection (read: surveillance) while the agency decides what to do officially with him.

Q had performed well in the field. He had gotten shot in the process, but he had held steadfast to his directives under duress. It was better than many would have done their first time out.

“This is not about Q,” James repeats, “But it’s about Silva.”

M’s nostrils flare at the name. Ah. Sore spot. She does not answer, but fumes silently.

“He knew a lot about you,” James presses, taking another step into the office. He closes the door behind him. “He loved you, in a crazy way.”

“Double-oh-seven, if you think that was love, I’m putting you in for another psych eval,” M tells him, straight-faced.

“He was obsessed with you,” James amends. She looks at the seat across from her table pointedly, but he chooses to stand. “Who was he?”

“Raoul Silva, international criminal, had plans to bomb MI6, ties to Al--”

“No,” James interrupts. “That’s who he is now. Who _was_ he?”

M’s eyelids flutter closed and she sighs. Only because he’s her favorite. “Tiago Rodrigues. He was a good agent, based in Hong Kong. He was compromised.”

“You gave him up.” These are not his words. Silva had said them, hissing and bitter, or sweet and smooth. _M let me fall, M forgot about me, M left me to rot._

“He was compromised,” M repeats. “We saved three agents.”

“For a price.” James nods in acknowledgment. Everything for a price. He wonders how much he’s worth. How much Q is worth.

“You’re thinking, would I do the same to you?” and their eyes meet sharp and sudden, and M is completely truthful as she says, “Sometimes difficult decisions must be made, and you know that.”

James knows; that’s good enough for him. He is satisfied at least that the decision would be difficult.

.

Q snaps to awake when James enters his flat, and by the time James reaches his room his hand is already on the trigger on the gun underneath his pillow. His body is one tense, coiled spring, and James has the sudden desire to smooth him out. “It’s only me,” James mumbles, and Q visibly relaxes, pushing himself gingerly into sitting on the bed, the blankets falling away to reveal soft flannel pajamas. He places the small handgun on the bare dresser. His hair is, frankly, a mess.

“I could have shot you,” Q admonishes, surly.

“You could have,” James allows, grinning, before shedding his coat and loosening his tie. Q makes a pretty picture against the pillows, pale-skinned and fresh-faced. James presses one knee into the mattress and watches it dip into the material before looking up at the other man and finding eyes alight with hunger. Smug, he puts more weight onto that knee and then lifts himself onto the bed, springs creaking as he places two hands on either side of Q’s hips, one knee now between Q’s legs above the blankets.

The boy’s stare is defiant, but eager. His breath is hot against James’ lips where they almost meet each other, Q’s back pressed against the headboard. His shoulder wound is healing slowly, so James will have to be sensitive of that. “Have you been ordered to kill me again,” Q whispers into his lips.

“No,” he whispers back, and then he closes the distance, the sigh that escapes Q bringing a tingle that runs all the way to his fingers. The kiss is soft and searching at first, lips barely brushing before they press close, Q’s tongue wet against the seam of James’ lips. James’ hands flutter over Q’s shoulder, wanting to touch but fearing it, drawn to the wound there. 

Q takes one hand in his and squeezes. “It’s not your fault.” He says it so soft and sure, so matter-of-fact that James wants to believe him. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” James protests, voice just as rough and quiet. “It always is.”

.

“Do you always treat your marks this way?”

James hums. “What way?” They kiss deeper, and Q groans.

“Stalk them,” Q explains, a little breathless now. “Decide not to kill them. Get them nearly killed. Then sleep with them.”

“Not all my marks.”

“So I’m special out of them.” James can feel Q’s grin against his teeth, returns the smile when he feels those long elegant fingers tickle down his chest, prodding at the buttons of his shirt.

“Not that special,” James says, and he receives a light tap on his cheek for the quip. He chuckles at Q, surprised yet again at the hacker, and Q grins, feral. It sends another shiver down James’ spine.

“I’m starting to think you only brought me in so you could sleep with me,” Q says, disappointment in his voice.

“I think you can only say that _after_ I’ve slept with you.” James catches Q’s lips between his teeth, and bites just hard enough to elicit another groan. Q responds beautifully to his touches, skin blooming red where he places his fingers and lips. He unbuttons the top button of the flannel pajamas and finds the pale expanse of Q’s collarbone inviting and perfect. He wants to mark it up, wants to run his tongue over the new and still tender circle of pink skin at Q’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Q breathes as James licks a stripe across his throat. “Well, you had better get on with that.”

.

There is a cage in the basement of MI6 made out of glass. There is only ever one inhabitant, and one guard.

M goes to visit the inhabitant. She is sad that it has come to this. What a waste.

The man in the glass cage says, “Mummy dearest,” with a smile that could rot teeth when she arrives, his hair nearly silver in the harsh light, deep shadows under his eyes. “Thank you for bringing me home.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. Thanks for sticking around. I had fun with this long-ish foray into 00Q-ness. There needs to be more porn though. Like, I think I will write porn for this.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter One originally posted for [mission00q](http://qbond.tumblr.com/tagged/mission00q) as a short...and then I decided I wanted more. For prompt: _Agent 007 was sent to kill me. He made a different call._


End file.
